Narrative Poems

His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
...

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
...

Today the Masons are auctioning
their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans,
gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes
labeled inside the collar "Potentate"
...

Dear Dr. Pintu Mahakul,

Heartiest CongratulationsTo You!
...

The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise
nor hear again
the lutes of paradise among the olive trees,
...

S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.
...

WEAPON, shapely, naked, wan!
Head from the mother's bowels drawn!
Wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one, and lip only one!
...

PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
Those who their injur'd deities defend,
...

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
...

Night is fallen
and the single star writing in the heavens
remembers...
...

Dear God,
Let our borrowers pay us back
We can take no more flack
We have to remain on track
...

In that soft season, when descending show'rs
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;
When op'ning buds salute the welcome day,
...

If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
...

Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
...

Thank you for representing life as a Gothic horror
with the nerve-wrecking shocks of demented men,
dad as Heathcliff, mom as Mr Rochester’s mad first
wife and you a strange mixture between Jane Eyre
...

'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
...

Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
...

THE leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks
And the simplicities of cottage life
I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
...

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
...

.


GIFT from the cold and silent Past!
...

When life's horizon fills with unspoken challenges
I become a silent text rediscovered by caring hands
Each offering a subtle nudge to keep my narrative alive.
...

Poetrytronics (One)

Poetry is both myth and narrative mystery.
[Poetry +metronics +cinematic Techniques+multiple Xs]
...

You are a new and shiny book
Your pages are just waiting to be turned
Your words are just waiting to be read
Your covers are yearning to be held
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NARRATIVE POEMS
By: Chan Mongol
...

In a world of fragile shells, I tread,
Each step a peril, fear widespread.
Walking on eggshells, my life's terrain,
Holding back my heart, concealing the pain.
...

Radio Stillness

Poetry In Civilization
Will Durant's History Of Poetics and story of civilizational text_links.
...

Algorithm Of ALIEN QUESTIONS

Are you in mode of impression?
Are you in mode of illusion?
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City Of Myths

Just Poetry (6)
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(for John Olson, who is not former)
... ... ... ... ...

Robert Hughes and Peter Schjeldahl were unsettling to the academically trained curatoriat. Even so they succeeded, because the true gray eminences wanted to hear an erstwhile poet's voice reporting back from aesthetic encounters in real time. In the latter's case, a little wise-assery didn't hurt. But there was a Dionysian glee in their re-purposing of narrative to trace beauty's will-o'-the-wisp across a canvas, then maybe following its tale into the context of gestation. Their evocations could be another kind of art. A trained art critic keeps recapitulating an edifice of theory that is more or less agreed-upon. A maverick critic throws himself into the abyss of lived aesthetics, then emerges to button-hole us about it. As for the maverick beyond critique, he remains a poet and mostly reports back when his head emerges between abysses, where they segue into each other. He keeps moving from world to artistic creation and back, where the mirror re-liquefies to quicksilver and yields multiple reflections when chased. And a touch of tomfoolery keeps everything picaresque.
...

Lighted window
Even the pillow
Looked a little brighter
Intoxicated by narrative creator
...